Melancholy Tales of a Mad Masked Musician
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: An unfortunate series of one shots. Some old, some new, some disturbing, all insane. From Pink Haze to a smut parody... could things get any worse? Don't answer that question.
1. A Pink Haze of Confusion

**Title: A Pink Haze of Confusion**

**Summary: The Phantom finally goes off the deep end, just in time for Valentine's Day, and Christine reaps the consequences.**

**Author's Note: Usually I like to use a mix of Erik's for my version of the Phantom. This time, it is ALL Gerry. Also, I don't actually celebrate Valentine's Day, but I thought it'd be fun to stick it in here.**

It had been, as usual, a marvellous performance. Christine was inordinately pleased with herself as she left the stage after the final bows. There would be an after party, of course— there always was— the occupants of the Opera House took any excuse to break out the wine—

Any excuse.

They'd had an absolute ball the first time Carlotta quit—

And the second time—

And the third—

Christine sighed deeply and pushed the diva out of her mind. It shouldn't bother her so much, she knew, and it wouldn't— if it hadn't been for Carlotta flirting with that cute Raoul de Chagny—

Raoul.

What kind of a name was Raoul, anyway?

Happily, Christine fell to thinking about this, and pretending he was in love with her, as she walked to her dressing room. She'd finally been given her own when the girls she shared with complained about her singing in her sleep. Christine was happy about this— after all, if she didn't have her own room with her own huge mirror, how would the Angel of Music teach her to sing? On top of which the other girls had snored.

Loudly and out of key and in tandem.

Almost as though they wanted Christine to leave—

She didn't need to think about that. She was just paranoid and insecure. Of course the people in the Opera wanted to be around her! Why should they not? She was a nice girl, if a little simple—

Behind her back, a few passing members of the ballet corps pointed at her and whispered.

"That's the one who says she takes lessons from the Opera Ghost!"

"Christine?" One of the girls snorted. "She is so weird."

"Like, yeah."

Christine didn't hear them. She had reached the door of her room, opened it— she stepped into her dressing room and caught her breath. Dozens— hundreds— of pink roses surrounded her, all their thorns still intact. She fought her way through them, her clothes getting caught, her hands scratched and nicked. Finally she made her way to the mirror, which was cleared for a few feet and which she welcomed as an oasis. The smell of the roses was overpowering— she was smothering— she was going to die here in the bower of roses—

"Ooh, candy."

Yes, there was a heart-shaped box of chocolates on the small heart-shaped table, along with a heart-shaped card with lace on it and her name written in curly, loopy cursive. Christine suppressed a squeal and jumped on it—

She read it—

She frowned slightly—

Next to the table was a chair. A floofy pink dress was laid across it, with a note pinned to it—

Please Put This On Immediately

Christine picked it up and looked at it warily. It had more ruffles than anything else, and the whole thing looked like it'd fly away if you threw it in the air. Shaking her head, she glanced once more at the card, then obeyed the note.

He wanted her in his lair—

Well, that sounded a bit more serious than she had intended it to.

He wished her to descend to his lair.

She slid open the mirror and blanched, because there was— oh God— more pink roses. And little candy hearts that said— oh horror— "Be Mine," and "Love Ya!" and "Angel!"

Christine grew worried.

But gamely she walked on, down the corridor, down the stairs— also strewn with roses— and found the gondola— which had been painted—

Christine wasn't sure whether to be pleased or frightened.

Pink.

It was pink.

What madness was at work here?

She poled her way through the underground labyrinth till she reached the lair of the Phantom. There, she found—

Candles.

She thought there had been candles before, but now—

Candles candles candles candles candles candles candles. The Phantom must have bought out an entire store. An entire three stores. Christine nearly fainted from the heat.

"You're here!"

The Phantom's voice echoed around the caverns, and there he stood— he'd opened the door that led, presumably, to his kitchen, and let clouds of steam billow out, along with a lovely scent—

The Phantom was baking. He was cooking. He was fixing a meal. He was playing Susie-homemaker.

Christine's mind reeled.

He was wearing—

—an apron—

—with a sign on it that said Kiss the Cook—

—and a hand-scrawled addition to it underneath that said Or He'll Punjab You.

Christine herself reeled.

The Phantom strode towards her, his powerful frame moving with none of that seductive intensity that made her mind weak— he was— well, there was no other word for it. He was skipping. And he had a whisk in his hand. Christine feared for her life and sanity.

The Phantom skipped over to her and bent over and brushed her cheek with his lips. Christine shuddered— somehow she thought he would have been cold— she didn't expect him to be so—

Before she could quite finish the though, he flung his arms around her and crushed her to his chest.

"This is more like it," Christine thought, but then she felt his hand on her head—

His fist, rather—

The Phantom gave Christine a noogie, then danced away, giggling to himself.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Christine! Did you like the roses?" he asked, bouncing excitedly.

"I thought they were from Raoul at first!"

The Phantom laughed. "Raoul? That silly! Of course not, they were from me! Who else?" He smiled fondly at her and patted her on the cheek. "Who loves you? Come on, tell me— who loves you—"

Christine stared at him. "You do?"

"I don't know, are you asking me or telling me?"

"Um, telling?"

"Aw, sweetie, you know it." Patting her once again, he giggled again and retreated to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Dinner'll be out in a sec— sorry for not sticking around but if I don't tend to the mashed potatoes they'll be burnt—"

Christine clutched her arms to herself and stared at the opening where he'd gone. A swinging door— the Phantom had installed a swinging, saloon-style door to his kitchen—

She started as his voice once again wafted from the other room.

"Make yourself comfortable, hon, I'll just be a minute!"

Trembling, trying not to think, she crept over to the sofa in the corner and sat down on the very edge of it. What was wrong with him? Was it something she'd done—

Had he gone mad?

Quickly she reassured herself that, as the man in question lived several stories below an Opera House and wore evening dress all the time, he was quite mad to begin with.

Had he gone sane?

Wouldn't that be even worse?

No, no, there must be something wrong— some unlooked-for punishment would soon be meted out on her— perhaps he had read her thoughts of Raoul and was displeased—

Perhaps he'd read her thoughts of him and was displeased—

She knew enough not to give in to her desire to tell him how much she longed to hold him in her arms. She knew he could never love her, this Angel— no real flesh and blood woman for him—

There was a crash from the kitchen.

"Oh, dang!" the Phantom shouted.

Christine shivered. What could it possibly be?

He emerged from the kitchen once again, flushed and smiling, and removed the apron and hung it on a peg— a cute little peg— with a picture of a happy pig on it—

Christine suppressed a cry of alarm.

He was wearing—

What was he wearing? It was—

"Like it?" said the Phantom happily, and did a little twirl for her, holding his arms out to demonstrate.

"Lovely," said Christine, gulping past the lump in her throat.

"I had it specially made."

"Well, you'd have to, wouldn't you?"

The Phantom's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at her. "Whatever do you mean, my dear?"

"Well—" She meant that no tailor in their right mind would create such a bombastic monstrosity as the suit that met her eyes. It was wide-striped, pink and black, with huge lapels— his tie was lavender— "I mean, um, I thought you had all your suits specially made. Because of your— um— size."

"Oh. No, I meant I had it specially made for this occasion. For our—" He gulped and smiled. "Our first date. Our first Valentine's Day together, Christine—" He advanced on her and she shied back against the sofa cushions.

"Christine, I'm glad you came— I'm glad you wore the dress—" His stormy grey eyes swept over her. "I'm glad— um—"

There was a tense and silent moment and for just a second Christine thought, as they gazed deep into each other's eyes, that perhaps this new Phantom wasn't so bad.

Then he leapt back to his feet with a startled cry—

"My spinach puffs!"

And he was off back to the kitchens.

Christine forced herself to her feet and tried to get her breathing back under control.

Eventually he returned from the kitchen and invited her to sit at the dining table—

That was new, a dining table. Christine ventured as much.

"Oh, yes," exclaimed the Phantom rapturously, "Costcoux was having a sale, and I just couldn't resist. I've wanted one like this for ever so long. I'll tell you, I had a job, though, getting it back down here. Caesar absolutely refused to carry it, and then there was the hours it took me to put it together— you know, they really should alter that sign 'Some Assembly Required,' to 'Several Lifetimes Required.'" This made him giggle. Everything seemed to make him giggle. Christine smiled slightly and wondered if he'd been drinking.

The Phantom rushed back into the kitchens, this time returning with a few dishes which he placed on the table. "Dinner is served, mademoiselle," he exclaimed. _Giggling._

Christine suppressed a moan of terror and took a bite of the food he placed in front of her. She chewed. She swallowed. The Phantom hovered over her, watching anxiously.

"Is it alright?"

"Of— of course, Angel, it is—" Christine choked on her bite and coughed and hacked for a minute before finishing, "lovely."

The Phantom wrung his hands. "Are you sure?"

_No_. "Yes."

"You are telling the truth, now, aren't you?"

_No_. "Yes."

"Aw, thanks, sweetheart." He pecked her on the head and went to his chair and sat down.

They ate.

It took a while.

It was the most rubbery food she had ever eaten, and she couldn't be sure what it actually was. But she also didn't dare ask.

They ate.

They chewed.

They chewed some more.

The Phantom smiled perkily at her. She smiled warily back.

After it was over, he jumped up and cleared the table, then returned to her and led her again to the sofa.

"I'm really glad you came tonight, Christine. I had something extra special I wanted to share with you."

Oh no. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. I mean, the food of course, that was specially cooked for you and me— but also I wanted to give you this." He pulled out a small, velvet-coloured box and held it out to her.

She took it.

"Shall I open it now?"

"Yes, yes, of course!"

She did.

It was a ring— an aquamarine stone, surrounded by diamonds. It was huge. It was beautiful. It was terrifyingly impressive. It weighed a ton, and it must have cost a fortune.

She studied the Phantom's face, what she could see of it. It alarmed her to notice that instead of the usual stark white mask he habitually wore, he now had on a pale pink one.

"Angel, did you— steal this?"

He pouted. He was good at it. He had the lips for it. She tried to ignore that.

"Of course not! Do you think I would do such a thing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I borrowed it."

"Oh." She didn't know quite what to say to that.

"I borrowed it," the Phantom went on, "off of your friend Raoul."

"My friend R— _what_?"

"Oh yes," he went on blithely. "Mind you, I had to pound him a bit first, and then tie him up in a punjab and threaten to stick a knife in his face, but he gave it to me quite readily after that. Very magnanimous, your friend Raoul. Very generous."

"Angel— you tell me this was in Raoul's possession? Raoul had it— Raoul intended— to give it to me?"

He cocked his head and looked at her. "To you? No, no, my dear. He was intending to give it to the diva— Dame Carlotta— he is in love with her, you see— no doubt they are themselves enjoying a little date tonight— even as we are—"

Shame flooded Christine's body. Raoul did not love her! Of course he did not! Who could love someone like her— poor as a churchmouse, with only her talent and incredible beauty to recommend her to social life—

The Phantom. The Phantom loved her.

It was but the work of a moment, and she had flung herself on him and showered him with kisses. He responded in surprise and a certain delight—

It was Valentine's Day, after all.

Eventually he found it necessary to disengage. He removed her hand from around his neck and patted it affectionately.

"There, there, my dear. I never go all the way on the first date. And we haven't even had dessert yet."

"Dessert? But, Angel—"

The Phantom sighed happily. "You know, I love it when you call me that. Come on, I've got Ben and Jerry's—"

Helplessly, she followed him to the kitchen. This was all so strange— he was so different—

He fed her some Cherry Garcia, stealing a kiss from the sweetness at her lips.

"You know, I was perhaps wrong about your friend having a date with the diva," he said conversationally. "It is entirely possible that he was somewhere else."

"Is it?" Christine murmured, her mind totally split. She reacted to Cherry Garcia the way most people would to— well, she had to keep herself from thinking about that.

"It is perhaps possible," went on the Phantom dreamily, "that he finds himself— divided— perhaps in his mind he is with the diva, and in his heart he is here with you— perhaps within in you—"

Christine looked at him and backed a few steps away. "Angel, after all you've done, the killing people and the showing up suddenly on the other side of mirrors, and the roses and the dinner— its this kind of talk that is really making me worried."

"Perhaps," said the Phantom, with a slight smile, "he is even— here—"

With a gentle finger he touched Christine on the stomach.

Christine froze.

The ingredients of dinner—

That horrible, rubbery, unidentifiable substance—

She screamed, a high and desperate sound, and ran away, ran from the man in the pink suit. He heard a splash as she launched herself into the lake and began to swim away.

Left behind in the kitchen, the Phantom fingered his chin and chuckled to himself. It had been an elaborate set-up— but totally worth it—

No doubt she would take care to obey his every order if she truly believed him to be insane.

He reflected on this. It wasn't enough, was it, for a man to live below an Opera House and wear a mask and be generally creepy, no. He had to resort to practical jokes and suits that even the fop would disdain.

Speaking of the fop—

He went to the pantry door, opened it, and looked down at him. Raoul stared back at him with wide, frightened, unblinking eyes.

"What have you done to her? Where did she go? What are you doing? Why are you dressed like that?"

The Phantom hit him on the head with a nearby turkey. The fop passed out at once.

"Happy Valentine's Day," said the Phantom, and closed the door.

Life—

Life was a funny thing.

And if you were stuck alone down in the cellars, with a lot of time on your hands, it was bloody boring—


	2. Mop The Fop

**Mop The Fop**

**by Random-Battlecry**

There was an announcer. I find there usually is, on occasions such as these. This one was a truly irksome example of the species— he wore a loud checked suit, violently-colored, complete with completely clashing tie, and an enormous shiny grin, like it was new-bought.

I stared at him and wondered how I'd gotten sucked into this.

Any minute now he was going to start— announcing things. I shivered. Bellowing things, more like, in one of those obnoxious, incredibly loud voices that carry, apparently, to the ends of the earth.

He leaned back and took in a deep breath. I winced anticipatorily. Here it came—

"Laaaa-dies and geeeen-tlemen! Welcome, welcome, welcome!"

I should have known he would say "Welcome" three times.

"Welcome—"

Oops. Four.

"To the game show of the century— Mop the Fop!"

There was a large, hugely appreciative crowd, and at this point, they cheered, as large, hugely appreciative crowds are so often wont to do. I winced again.

Some of them were chanting the name of the game—

"Mop! The! Fop! Mop! The! Fop! Mop! The! Fop!" Some of them got a bit confused and chanted it the wrong way round.

"Fop! The! Mop! Fop! The! Mop!"

Which, in my opinion, sounded rather rude.

But the announcer was going on—

"The game in which a specially chosen fop is given a make-over— and not just one make-over, but many! Can we turn this year's model into a handy dandy?" The crowd cheered. " Or is he doomed to fopdom forever?" The crowd booed. Capricious crowd.

I could just picture Erik in amongst them, sniggering. Sniggering away like mad. I don't know if I will ever get over my suspicion of Christine— though she chose me over him, two years ago, ever since then she has done some thoroughly— _Erik_-like things.

Like smushing the wedding-cake into my face at our reception—

And making faces in our wedding photos.

And threatening to Punjab me if I didn't do the dishes.

And saying she wished we could find some more attractive real estate, say, with a lake, under an opera house somewhere.

And strangling the neighbors.

This Mop-The-Fop thing was just the latest— and, unfortunately, it would probably not be the last.

The announcer had taken the floor again.

"Time to meet our contestant. Lad-eeeees and gentlemen, please welcome, Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny— foppishly known as— RAOUL!"

There was some applause as I walked onstage— at least I have that small comfort.

There were also some rotten cabbages thrown at me, which leads me to suspect even stronger the presence of Erik in the audience.

I was led, by an alarmingly-perky young woman, to a chair in the centre of the stage. I sat on it.

I have been going deaf ever since the adventure in Erik's lair, and I didn't hear the noise that made the entire audience burst into laughter. But I felt it. Gingerly I reached underneath me and fished out the whoopie cushion.

Ah, the famous French sense of humour.

To my distraction, I could see Christine in the wings, laughing so hard her face was turning purple. Obviously I would get no comfort from those corners.

No, instead I must turn for help to the—

Oh no.

To the woman who was approaching me, hair-styling gel and scissors in hand—

She looked terribly, terribly familiar. And I do mean terribly.

"Nice to see you again, Raoul," she whispered conspiratorially. She snapped the scissors shut menacingly, two inches away from my ear.

"Aaaaand now," boomed the never-ending announcer, "hold on to your ponytails, folks— it's time to play— Mop the Fop!"

I sat there in the chair, clutching the edges of it till my knuckles turned white, wondering how they'd found my ex-girlfriend to come and wield scissors dangerously close to my jugular—

A/N: Hi everybody! This story inspired by my little sister, who when I wrote the word "Fop" on her notebook, instantly lost it and started guffawing, and wrote "mop the fop" on my notebook. She still, as far as I know, has no idea what a fop is. Anyway.


	3. The Matter at Hand

**A/N: Earning me the title of Queen of Disturbing One-Shots, and by far the worst one-shot I've ever written. I feel dirty just for thinking it. And I don't mean dirty in a good way. Credit must be given to my nephew for coming up with what "F.O.P." means. Insanity is clearly running its course through my family, although I suppose you can blame it on me for having corrupted him since he was born. I'm sorry— its my brain, we do things differently in there. And thanks to that bilingual wonder of a pretend-husband, Musique "Stalker Erik" et Amour, for helping me butcher the Italian language more adeptly.**

**The Matter At Hand**

Buying an opera house is hideously difficult. There's papers to be gone through, the matter of a loan, the performers to be placated, the stagehands to fire, the cleaning to tend to, and of course going through the ashtrays for loose change.

Oddly enough, Monsieur Lefevre was astoundingly accommodating, even going so far as to offer to pay Messrs. Andre and Firmin to take the Opera Populaire off his hands. Andre and Firmin jumped at the chance. They weren't fools.

Or, perhaps, they were—

The trouble started, as trouble is wont to do, at nine forty five the first morning, when La Carlotta di Pissi, the diva in residence, started dropping backdrops on people. At least, everyone blamed it on her, and since she couldn't speak English, she had no way of rebutting these accusations or, indeed, even understanding what it was that she was accused of. The stagehands loved this. Innocent victims were their favorites. It wasn't long before they were mooning her and making "Free Carlotta" t-shirts.

This, however, was not the extent of the trouble. There was much more to come.

It was after Carlotta had been hauled away protesting that they got the first of the notes.

For some reason, it said,

_Dear-a Signors:_

_I theenk-a by now you have-a chance to-a reflect on your almost positive-a confusion. It-a would appear to-a be wise-a on you-a part to comply weeth my-a suggestions._

_Ciao,_

_O.G._

The new managers stared at it for a moment, and then Firmin said, "Theenk?"

"Weeth?" said Andre.

"Do we like people who speak with blatant double e's?"

"No, we do not."

"I did not think so."

"And so, what do we do?"

Firmin frowned for a moment. "We do this," he said. "We ask someone else to give us advice."

"Said Firmin firmly," provided Andre, earning a glare from his partner (business partner, what do you think? and get your minds out of the gutter) "What? Alliteration is funny."

"No it is not."

"You just have no sense of humor."

"Exactly."

And so they turned to the stagehands and performers. "Who is it that would send polyglot notes to two Frenchman who unaccountably speak with English accents?"

"We don't know," said the stagehands, "we're new here."

"Eet ees the Ghost," provided a random performer (we'll call her da Shea, because Madame Giry isn't in this one).

"Why," called the sharp and rather peeved voice of Madame Giry, "am I not in this one?"

"Because I am," said Mademoiselle da Shea, "now shut up. As I was saying— eet ees the Ghost."

The managers stared at her.

"Why is it that you only have an accent part of the time?"

"Because I am a performer," she explained.

"Oh yes?"

"And not a very good one."

"Ah."

"A ghost, you say?"

"A ghost, oui," she agreed. "A large man is seen, dressed all in pink, moving with the grace often found in large people— and ghosts. At night the entire opera house is awash with the scent of garlic—"

"A ghost— with an Italian accent? In writing?"

She shrugged. "You said it, not me."

The managers looked at each other. "What manner of devilry is this?"

As if in answer, another note floated down. Andre bent over to pick it up, and his back seized up; so Firmin bent over to pick it up, and lost his balance. He read the note aloud from his place on the floor.

_Dear-a Signors,_

_It would-a please me greatly if-a you would leave a plate of spaghetti and two loaves of-a garlic bread on the stairs-a leading to the Dark and Creepy Part of-a the Cellars._

_Thank-a you._

_Ciao,_

_O.G._

The managers exchanged glances.

"This," said Andre, "is too much."

"I agree," Firmin agreed. "We must call in a specialist."

"What kind of a specialist?"

"Well, I was thinking someone who knew something about acupuncture—"

"No. A specialist that knows how to get rid of ghosts."

"Who you gonna call?" wondered Mademoiselle da Shea. Someone in the orchestra started playing the _Ghostbusters_ theme song, but luckily she shot him before he got too far.

"I don't know," said Firmin. "Look in the Yellow Pages."

Which is how, an hour later, a carriage showed up, driven by a man with a ponytail, who was shouting at the top of his voice.

"_How do you stop this thing_?"

He managed, eventually, to bring the carriage to a halt by simple expedient of running it into the stable house. He crawled, dusty and coughing, from the wreckage, reattached his ponytail which had come loose, and presented his card to the skeptical managers.

"Raoulph de Chagny— special services, F.O.P."

Andre was inclined to take this on faith, but Firmin was a bit firmer. He squinted at the card, squinted at Raoulph, squinted at Andre, then put his glasses back on and stopped squinting.

"What, pray tell, does F.O.P. stand for?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Say anyway."

"Do you always speak in rhyme?"

"Not unless I feel threatened."

"Very well then. It stands for—"

"And stop pausing dramatically."

"Very well. _Farts On Phantom_," admitted Raoulph with a very slight hiccup.

Firmin stared him down and Andre giggled like a child.

"In which case," said Andre, "may we welcome you, welcome you, welcome you to the Opera Poopulaire—"

"Andre!" snapped Firmin, glaring at him ferociously, "how many times must I tell you, that is not funny!"

"Raoulph seemed to like it, "said Andre, gesturing at Raoulph, who was indeed sniggering to himself.

"Not funny," said Firmin sourly, "at all."

"What seems to be the problem?" asked Raoulph, sobering slightly.

"We have a ghost," said Firmin, glaring. "And we would like you to get rid of it."

"Righto," said Raoulph cheerfully, and was walking towards the Opera House proper, rubbing his hands together in gleeful and childlike excitement, when someone arrived with a steamroller and ran him over.

Firmin and Andre stared at the wreckage. Raoulph's ponytail stuck out from underneath the roller rather forlornly. Their gazes were drawn upwards to where the driver of the steamroller was descending in a flourish of a black cape.

He came down the five-step ladder and stood on the ground in front of them, a tall and skeletally-thin figure dressed all in black, with a white mask, his hair slicked back in a style that wouldn't be popular for several more months yet at least. He had a lasso coiled over one arm and a peeved expression.

"And you are, monsieur?" ventured Andre.

"My name," said the man with a deep bow, " is Bob. But you can call me— The Persian."

"The Persian?"

"The Persian?"

"The Persian."

"The Persian?"

"Yes."

"Like— a type of cat?"

"No."

"But— you don't look Persian."

"And this is relevant how?" snapped The Persian.

"W- why do you wear a mask?" inquired Andre.

"I'm starting a trend, what's it to you?"

Firmin smacked Andre. "Cannot you concentrate on the matter at hand?"

"I'm sorry, I was just curious—"

"Well, control yourself!"

" Look," said The Persian, " you have a ghost situation, yes?"

"Er, yes," said Firmin, sparing a glance for the steamrollered Raoulph, "er, and we called that man— the one down here who is flat as a pancake— we called him to come and sort things out. But, er— you appear to have— run him over. A bit. Not that that's a bad thing," he added as The Persian glared at him. "Quite the opposite. Clearly the man has had it coming for years."

The Persian nodded and hitched the lasso higher on his arm. "Lead on."

"But, er—"

"Lead on, I say."

The hapless managers led on, forced to ignore the fact that the steamroller was parked on their front steps. They took him around to the side door.

Once inside, The Persian sniffed the air keenly.

"Someone," he said in his deep, growling, and incredibly attractive voice, "is smoking something. I want some. Hold on a tick."

He disappeared down the hallway and came back half an hour later in a pleasant glow.

"Right! Now I am in the correct frame of mood! To do a spot of ghost hunting!"

"Er," ventured Andre, "we think he's down in the cellars—"

"Of course he is! Of course he is! What ghost in their right mind wouldn't want to be down in the cellars! Of course he could also be in the attic!"

"Er— we haven't got an attic," said Firmin.

The Persian stared at him wild-eyed.

"Not got an attic?" he roared. "Whadderyer mean you've not got an attic? You must have an attic, man, it is absolutely essential that you develop an attic right away!"

"Er— we're going to leave now," said Andre.

"Right!" said The Persian. "Right! Right!" and snorted violently several times. The managers hurried away for a vacation in Barbados, hoping that everything would be alright by the time they got back, leaving The Persian to do as he wished.

Which he did.

But after he'd done that for a while, he did something else.

And, having done that, he saw no reason to do other things as well, and when at length he emerged from the dressing room of Mademoiselle da Shea, he decided to do what he'd come for.

On the way down the stairs he came upon a plate of spaghetti carbonara, and ate it, spitting out the pieces of bacon. Clearly, he thought to himself fuzzily, the ghost would be down here with the rats. They went together, ghosts and rats. And badgers, though he had his own doubts on the subject.

Some ways further he began to find evidence cookery. The first clue he had was the abandoned garlic press, and a few steps past that was the turkey baster. He picked these up and it wasn't long, in fact, before he had so many utensils that he could have started a restaurant, which he wasn't in the least inclined to do because A: he'd have to spend time around people, B: he wasn't a very good cook, and C: finding ghosts was a lot more fun.

If only he could find this ghost—

The ghost eluded him for some time, until he heard the faint strains of some strenuous Italianate singing from down one corridor. Trusting his instincts, he followed the corridor, until it turned to the left, and then he followed it to the left; then it turned to the right, and he followed it to the right; and then it seemed to him that he wasn't so much trusting his instincts as trusting that if he walked into a wall, it would hurt.

This was alright, though. It didn't matter.

The singing was getting closer, and as he walked on, his yellowish eyes glinting feverishly in the dark, the lasso clenched tightly in his hands, it turned suddenly to weeping, and he heard the voice say,

"_Mi bella— miscelatore carissima_—"

Clearly the ghost was insane. Not only did he write with an accent, he was currently in mourning over kitchen appliances.

The Persian crept closer, the punjab at the ready, and ventured a look around the corner.

Well.

There was cooking going on, apparently—

Ten or so pots were on the large stove, most of them bubbling madly. A heap of tomatoes stood ready next to a knife. There was cheese, and spinach, and a pasta machine, and a plate the size of a platter, and over everything the smell of garlic. The Persian wrinkled his nose.

There was, also, a man. He was decidedly on the large side, of the type that would be played with gusto by Dom DeLuise, tears ran down his face, and he wore a football jersey that had his number on the front and said "PIANGI" on the back. He was, indeed, crying over his blender, which had apparently shorted out in distress at all the vegetables he'd put in it to try and make gazpacho.

Something about the scene was peculiarly touching, the kind of circumstance that would tug at a person's heartstrings. Fortunately, The Persian not being in possession of a heart, he didn't have any strings to be tugged, and instantly he sallied forth to confront the Italian ghost, who was not a ghost, but was a man.

It would seem.

There followed a knockdown drag-out fight of the sort where the attacker runs at the victim and then brains himself on a frying pan that is unexpectedly hanging from the ceiling. The Ghost (lets call him Piangi, now) peered down at The Persian.

"Would-a you like," he said, sniffling, "some ravioli?"

The Persian glared up at him.

"Why," he spat, "are you offering me musical notations?"

Piangi blinked. This not producing any effect, he blinked again.

"Musical-a notation?"

"Ravioli," said The Persian. "Ravioli, rigatoni, paparazzi— I don't need instruction on how to sing, thank you very much."

Piangi blinked again. "Mi apologies, signore—" he said. "I was offering you pasta."

"Were you?" said The Persian. "Were you? Right! Right! Could have fooled me!"

There followed a bit of a standoff while I tried to think of something else to happen.

Piangi offered his hand to The Persian.

The Persian took it.

Piangi said, "Um—"

The Persian snapped, "What?"

"I might-a need that-a back, later—"

"Oh, shut up," snapped The Persian, tied Piangi up, and marched him upstairs, where he turned him over to the police. The erstwhile ghost went to jail for a bit, where he discovered La Carlotta; they fell in love and eventually had several very large children.

The Persian, meanwhile, returned to the cellars wherein Piangi had been doing his dastardly cooking. He glanced around a bit and thought to himself.

"A little black paint— take down the pictures of gondolas— fix the blender— perfect."

It was with trepidation that the managers returned to the Opera House— they were immensely pleased to discover that there hadn't been pasta cooked in the great kitchens in all the months they had been gone. However, they found that there had been certain adjustments in the Opera House legend.

They interviewed Mademoiselle da Shea.

"A ghost?" they said.

"A tall, skeletally-thin man, dressed all in black—"

"Really."

"Who wears a white mask—"

"Ah."

"And instead of the smell of garlic everywhere, there is the sound of music drifting up from the cellars in the middle of the night."

"I see," said Andre, "and what truth is there to the rumor that he sleeps with the chorus members?"

"None at all," she said staunchly. "Although it is true that he has been seen inside my room more often than anywhere else—"

The managers stared at her.

She smiled back cheerfully.

"I see," muttered Firmin.

Then it was time for a big production number, and, eventually, life got back to normal.


	4. The Uncontended Title

**A/N: Another one-shot, furthering the fine art of Raoul-bashing. I apologize for the amount of commas in this one, but as I was reading Douglas Adams again and he always has that effect on me, they couldn't quite be avoided. **

**The Uncontended Title**

It was a day like any other, except for the fact that it was hailing, which didn't happen often. And, of course, allowing for it being Thursday, which means that a day like it only came along once a week. Other than that, it was a remarkably common-place and average twenty-four hour period, full of the usual joys and sorrows and trials and trivialities and meals and teeth-brushing and dog-walking.

On this particular day, at about the noon hour, or perhaps slightly afterwards to make room for lunch and a short nap, which has long been held to be the chief aid to digestion known to man, especially if you're eating French food, which, this being France, was nearly unavoidable, a carriage pulled up in front of the Opera Populaire and a young man got out.

He was not staggeringly handsome, or staggeringly charming, or staggeringly intelligent, but he was staggeringly wealthy, and this fact alone made up for a whole host of other ills, such as his tendency to snort loudly and repeatedly while laughing, his frequenting half the call-girls in the city, and his possession of one of the most mousy ponytails this side of Colonial America. He was the Vicomte de Chagny and was waiting, mostly patiently, for his brother to die so that he might inherit the title of Count, which, he thought, sounded much more impressive. He had a large house with a stable full of fine white horses and a nominal girlfriend named Angelica who had secretly been seeing her own housemaid.

He tripped on his way out of the carriage and managed, just barely, to regain his balance after stumbling for a few feet. The doorman watched him impassively. The Vicomte de Chagny stood up straight, took a deep breath, and tugged his jacket down over his chest— it was a stretch. Then he headed steadily for the huge double doors were the main entrance to the Opera House. After rebounding off them a few times he finally figured out the admittedly rather complicated handle, and gained entrance.

The Opera House was undeniably impressive, if you like that sort of thing. There had apparently been a sale on gold paint— everything was dusted with gilding, including stairs, the attendants, the floor, the ceiling, and the obligatory statues of naked women. Raoul breathed in deeply for a few moments, smiling to himself, before coughing on the lungful of gold dust that he'd inhaled.

The managers came bustling up to him, cheerfully and zealously trying to impress their heterosexuality on everyone in sight and failing rather miserably.

"We're in the middle of a rehearsal—"

"A rehearsal with girls."

"Girls, lots of girls."

"We love girls."

"Yes, indeed."

"I see," said Raoul, though he didn't. "Is it possible that I might be able to meet some of them?"

"Well, we would introduce you except—"

"We want them for ourselves."

"Yes, that's it."

"Girls."

"We love girls."

"I see," said Raoul again because, as has elsewhere been mentioned, the chief function of a fop's mind is to make his mouth repeat everything several times. This leads to embarrassment sometimes when they can't remember what it was they said last, and this is how lines like, "Clearly, madame, genius has turned to madness," get written. "Is it possible I might be able to meet one of them?"

"One of them?"

"Just one. I don't ask much."

"Which one?"

"Any one, I don't care. I came here to inspect the opera house, monsieurs, and an opera house is only as good as the girls in it. Or, at least, that's what my father told me."

Firmin and Andre exchanged glances. The late Comte, whose name had been Hurlbert or Francois or something equally regrettable, had had a certain reputation about town. However, the present Vicomte was blinking at them in the pleasant manner of an innocent who is none too intelligent, and in their kindness they decided not to enlighten him.

"Right this way," said Firmin. Each manager took an arm, and in this manner they led him to the stage, chatting amiably all the way.

"They say there's a ghost here, you know," said Firmin.

"A ghost?" said Raoul.

"Yes, a ghost."

"A ghost," affirmed Andre.

"Huh," said Raoul, "a ghost."

"Yes, a ghost."

"A ghost, yes."

"Huh."

"Huh."

"Huh."

"And, er, how do you know he is a ghost, then?"

"Sorry, didn't catch that, what did you just say?"

"How, er, do you know that, er, he's a ghost, then?"

"Oh, that's easy. He wears evening dress all the time."

There was a slight pause in the conversation and then Raoul said, frowning as he tried to comprehend, "Evening dress?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"But I thought ghosts were known for appearing all in white, or something like that— sheets, you know."

"Sheets?" said Andre.

"Sheets?" said Firmin.

"Sheets," said Raoul. "And isn't evening wear rather popular at the opera? I know my dressing gown is rather trend-setting, but I haven't been here long enough for it to catch on."

"Oh, is that a dressing gown? I was going to say, what a smashing frock you have on," said Firmin pleasantly.

"Ooh, yes, simply lovely," agreed Andre.

"Er, thank you," said Raoul uncomfortably. "But it is a dressing gown. I forgot to put on my trousers and shirt, you see."

"Yes, yes, of course, perfectly understandable," said Firmin. "But," he urged, "don't you find that skirts are simply more comfortable? Much less confining."

"Much," said Andre definitely.

"Er, about this ghost," said Raoul, anxiously trying to change the subject. "I don't suppose you've ever confronted him?"

"No, no, as a matter of fact we personally have never seen him."

"And I suppose where he lives is a well-guarded secret."

"Oh, no," said Andre immediately. "Oh, no, we know that. To reach the ghost's home, you go through the looking glass in Miss Daae's dressing room, down the creepy corridor, down the winding staircase, take the first horse on the left, hop into the gondola, pass under the archway, count the frightening statues on your right and then take the first left after you reach the tenth one, and there you are at the lair beyond the lake."

"Er— lake?" said Raoul, who was utterly unable to assimilate more than three words at a time, a time-honored trademark of the foppish mind.

"Oh, yes, the entire basement's flooded."

"Sorry, but isn't that terribly unhygienic?"

"Oh, we pulled the dead bodies out last week and we've kept the water squeaky clean ever since."

"Well, doesn't that make things a bit— damp?" Raoul went on, flustered.

"Of course, you silly-billy," said Andre, patting his arm. "Its water. That's what water does."

"You see, they didn't tell us that the cellars were flooded until_ after _we'd signed the contract," explained Firmin. "The weasels."

"Weasels!" agreed Andre in a kind of explosive squeak.

"Anyway, tell us about yourself, monsieur. All we know is what we saw in your advertisement."

"Well," Raoul began, "like I said in the advert, I was looking for something to spend some money on so I felt like I was doing something with my life. A purpose, so to speak. I'd already been contacted by a few people before you two— one was this nice man, Mr. Gates, who wanted to talk to me about computer technology, but I had him thrown out of the manse, you see. He was talking crazy talk. And then there was this Mr. Cowell, who wanted to talk to me about a scheme he had for auditioning singers and making fun of them. It sounded interesting, but I didn't see how it would be interesting to anyone else, so I had him fed to the crocodiles. And, let me see, who else— ah yes, a few different people wanted me to finance their political careers, and a young woman, Mademoiselle da Shea, came and begged me to make an appearance in a story she was writing, which I didn't think was quite possible, and so I handed her off to my chief torturer. She was beginning to scream rather loudly as I left, and I am anxious to get back and watch proceedings."

The managers had gone rather pale by this time and were gulping nervously like anxious fish.

"Well," said Firmin, faintly, "I'm glad you approved of our little venture."

"Quite," said Raoul easily. "You know, I feel compelled to tell you, gentlemen, as I came here this morning— a trip which, incidentally, took me past Ye Olde Pub and reminded me that I really must send my brother in to pay my bill— and then I saw a butterfly and, in trying to catch it, fell out of the carriage— and then I was nearly run over by a drove of sheep— is it a drove? perhaps it's a herd— anyway there were a bloody lot of them— and one of them ate the butterfly— and I found a penny— and as I was bending over to pick it up my hair got caught in the spokes of the carriage wheel and I was tugged along and forced to do a series of undignified somersaults before the driver finally heard my screams and stopped— oh my, was that only this morning? It seems so long ago. Good times, good times—" He shook himself out of it and went on. "Anyway, as I was saying some time ago, as I came here this morning I was driven by a chauffeur. And also by this strange feeling that I would meet someone here who would change my life forever."

Both Firmin and Andre looked outrageously pleased, and then just outraged at each other.

"Why would he be talking about you?"

"Well, it makes more sense than him talking about you! I'm younger."

"I'm prettier."

"I play the flute."

"I invented the aerosol spray can!"

"What? You did not! You liar!"

"I am not a liar, you twit!"

"Hobo!"

"Hoodlum!"

"Diva!"

"Slut!"

"Girls! Girls!" said Raoul.

"Raoul!"

The voice came from to one side, and all three whirled around to see who it belonged to. She was young, and she was pretty, and her mouth gaped open widely in a manner that suggested it was used to the position and wasn't willing or likely to change anytime soon. Her eyes looked misty and slightly drugged, and she obviously recognized Raoul—

"Raoul!"

—because she kept calling him by name.

Raoul, however, didn't appear to recognize her. He glanced at her and frowned. "Do I know you?"

"It is I!"

"I?"

"I!"

"Who is I?"

"I is Christine Daae!"

"Is I?"

"Yes I is!"

"Not that this isn't fascinating," broke in Andre, "because it is, really it is. But could we possibly switch to something just a bit more grammatical? My brain is curling up in a fetal position in one corner of my skull."

"I am Christine Daae," said Christine Daae obligingly. "We knew each other when we were little. We did an awful lot of kissing under the old apple tree, so I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts."

Raoul blinked at her blankly.

"Were we?"

"You rescued my scarf from the ocean."

Raoul frowned. "No. No, I don't think so, that doesn't sound like me at all. You must be thinking of some other Raoul de Chagny."

"But Raoul—" said Christine, her dark eyes filling with tears. "You told me you loved me."

"I tell that to all sorts of people," said Raoul dismissively. "I told that to my cleaning lady last week. You shouldn't assume that I mean anything by it."

Christine stomped her foot and fled in tears. In short order she was being comforted by a man in a mask, so_ that _was alright.

Meanwhile, Firmin and Andre took it upon themselves to introduce Raoul to Carlotta di Pissi, the diva in residence. She responded in true di Pissi style, arching her neck and batting her eyelashes , sticking her nose in the air and unwittingly flashing some nosehairs which her personal stylist had overlooked in his rush to get out of the room before he threw up.

"Lovely to meet," said Raoul, giving an elegant bow with enormous dramatic flourishes of both hands, so much so that he lost his place and had to go through the whole thing again, backwards, before he finished, "you."

"Chaaaahmed," said Carlotta.

Raoul bent over her hand. She lifted it so he could kiss it and hit him in the mouth. He let out an unintelligible cry and clutched at the lower half of his face.

"He loves me," said Carlotta to the room at large, and the room at large said, "Uh—"

Eventually Raoul recovered, though tears were seeping out of the corners of his eyes, and turned a pained smile on the diva. "You're La Carlotta, are you not?"

"That'sa my name, signore, don't wear-a it out," she said, simpering from underneath elegantly curled eyebrows.

"Ah. I had heard that there was a Spanish diva here."

"That was in an-othah version, signore. For theese one, the powers that be decid-ed that Italian chicks trump Spanish ones. We are, 'ow you say, more zexy."

"Zexy?"

"Si, signore. Zexy."

"Zexy."

"Why you repeat-a me, signore? You don't understand perfectly good English?"

"I find it charming," said Raoul. This didn't really answer her question, and he knew it, but she didn't and so she just smiled and simpered some more. "Do you know, I think you could be the one."

"What one?"

"_The _one."

"Thee one?"

"Yes, the one."

"Thee one, as opposed to some othah one who is-a notta thee one?"

"Oui, signorina."

"'Ou 'ad me at 'hello,'" she crooned, batting her eyelashes again.

"Er— I don't believe I said hello."

"Well then you had mee at whatevah you said."

"I think we were meant for each other."

"I theenk so too. Look at us. You have two hands— I have two hands. You have a ponytail— I have a ponytail. You have a fake accent— I have a fake accent. You breathe— I breathe. You have money— I don't. It was-a meant to be."

"Of course," said Raoul, almost sincerely, and turned to the managers. "If you don't mind, I'm going to take the diva off your hands for a bit. Possibly for longer."

Andre and Firmin waved at him and made, "Isn't that nice," noises. Once Raoul and Carlotta had left, they turned to each other.

"Well that was fast, wasn't it?"

"This whole morning," said Firmin definitely, "has felt like one long run-up at a very short jump."

"I suppose that's what happens when there isn't really a plot."

"Yes, I suppose so."

There was a pause.

"Still," said Andre, "at least we have a benefactor, a diva-delighter, and a resident fop all in one."

"Yes," agreed Firmin with a sigh. "And I should think that title would go uncontended for a good long while."

"One can only hope," said Andre, and together they went to open a bottle of celebratory champagne.


	5. 100 Percent Pure

**A/N: I can't seem to make myself write a true smut/creak creak scene, and so I just resort to making fun of things instead.**

**100 PercentPure

* * *

**

**The Big Decision**

"Can you believe I married the Phantom?" squealed Christine. "There wasn't, like, a priest or anything, but his buddy the Persian dude said it was totally legal."

Meg glanced up at her and smiled slightly. "Alright," she said, and returned her attention to what she was doing.

"And you know what that means?"

"Hmm?" said Meg. She was knitting.

"It means—"

A small thing, like a baby's cap.

"I'm going to inherit everything when he dies!" said Christine, grinning like a lunatic.

"Ah," said Meg.

"And he loves me! He loves me, Meg, he loves me! He loves me! My angel loves me! He loves me! He love loves me!"

"I see."

"And I love him! I really do! I really really love him!"

"Aha."

"I want to make little angel babies with him!" Christine said, carrying on despite the total lack of reaction from her friend, who was frowning at her needles.

"Purl— two?"

"In fact!" said Christine in tones that implied she was about to impart a great big huge enormous incredibly exciting secret, "I've decided to wear my black chemise tonight."

Meg glanced up at her again and blinked slightly.

"Alright," she said, and looked back down again.

"Don't you know what that means, silly?"

"—no."

"It means tonight is the night!"

This got Meg's attention. She stared at Christine in horror.

"Dear Lord," she said, "tell me you're not going to start singing that Rod Stewart song again."

**The Preparations**

Christine spent hours and hours getting ready. She curled her hair in some spots, straightened it in others, braided it, unbraided it, French-braided it, twisted it in complicated spirals, fixed it in place, shook her head to see if it would come loose, turned her attention to her wardrobe, decided on the blue dress, decided on the green dress, decided on the aquamarine dress, changed her mind entirely and decided on the pink dress, decided on the white dress, decided on the green dress, decided on the purple dress, decided to go out and buy a new dress, started on her makeup, poked herself in the eye with the mascara brush, spent ten minutes screaming curses at the top of her lungs, spent five minutes apologizing to everyone in the vicinity, spent another five minutes regaining her eyesight, then actually began applying her makeup and got sidetracked into thinking about kittens.

Erik merely clothed himself and headed out the door.

**The Consummation**

They stared at each other across the dinner table.

Erik's eyes were heavy-lidded, his voice thick with an undeniable lust as he caught himself staring at Christine's delicate ear lobes.

Christine blushed hotly and pretended not to notice. She'd heard tell that Erik had quite an ear lobe fetish. Tantalizingly, she took off her earrings. Accidentally, she dropped them in the soup.

"You know," she said brightly, spooning them out, "odd as it may seem, the only thing I can think of is the list of sins I was taught as a child. I mean, that I was taught to avoid. I think I can remember them all. Perversion, bestiality, anger, rape—"

Erik growled low in his throat, lunged to his feet, lunged across the table, lunged further across the table, cursed the fact that he'd bought such a large table, continued lunging across the table, finally reached Christine and crushed her to him. "I love it when you talk dirty."

"Alright," said Christine. "Perversion— rape— desecration of graves— vandalism—"

"Louder!" Erik began to struggle with her buttons.

"Swearing— theft—"

"Louder!" He kept struggling.

"Nudity! Perversion! Not washing your hands after you go to the bathroom!"

"Hang on a minute," said Erik, disgruntledly. He left the room and returned with a pair of scissors. "Alright, continue."

"Perversion! Anger! Bestiality!"

He began to cut off the buttons.

Christine took a deep breath to continue shouting, and the rest popped open by themselves.

"Now!" roared and growled Erik, in a deep deep groar of a rowl, into her face, spraying her lightly with saliva, and she blinked.

"Now?"

"Now!"

"Where?"

"Here!"

"Here? On the table?"

"It's a large table."

"Ah, so, is_ that_ why its padded?"

Eventually, thought not without some complications, they ended up on the table.

Erik groaned.

Christine groaned.

Erik groaned louder.

Christine moaned.

Erik tried out the moan.

"Good moan," said Christine.

"I try," said Erik. Then, "Christine!"

"Erik!"

"Christine!"

"Erik!"

"God!" shouted Erik.

"God!" shouted Christine back.

"God!"

"Angel!"

"Angel!"

"Angel!"

"Christine!"

"Holy Ghost!"

"Trinitarians!"

"John the Baptist!"

Things went on in this manner for some time.

"Moan!" groaned Erik.

"Groan!" moaned Christine.

"Moan Christine!"

"Moan Erik!"

"Groan Angel!"

"Peter Paul and Mary!"

Erik paused and looked at her quizzically. "The singing group?"

"What!" moaned Christine.

"The singing group who did 'Puff the Magic Dragon'?"

"Nooooo!" shouted Christine.

"Right, okay, was just wondering." He went on.

"Angel!"

"Erik!"

"Christine!"

"Puff the Magic Dragon!"

He stopped again and said, peevishly, "Look, _that _is just_ wrong_."

"Can't help it!" shrieked Christine. "Can't help it, can't help it! You're the one who put the idea in my head!"

"Well, I'm sorry for it now."

"Sorry!" shouted Christine. "Don't be sorry, its MARVELLOUS!"

**The Aftermath**

"Want a cigarette?"

"Don't smoke. Singer."

Erik snorted.

"Want to cuddle?" offered Christine.

"Don't cuddle," said Erik. "Phantom."

"Oh."

There was a slight pause.

"Want to do it again?"

"Sure, why not."

**The Morning After**

Christine bounced out of bed the next morning and went to find herself breakfast. Erik was nowhere to be seen, but there was a note on the table.

She picked it up and frowned at it.

It said, "_We really must do this again sometime_."

**The Deception**

Erik, meanwhile, had made his way back to the little flat where he spent a great deal of his time these days. He hung his fedora up on the coat rack and loosened his waistcoat.

"Ah, home—"

"Erik?" Meg stood there, hands on her hips, one of which was holding a spoon (the hand, that is, not the hip). "You were gone all night."

"Yes."

"Must you really toy with Christine that way?"

"Yes," said Erik emphatically. "It wouldn't be such an interesting story, would it, if the Opera Ghost had a wife and a baby on the way. We have to keep the star-crossed lover element. Otherwise, people would lose interest." He crossed over to Meg and rubbed her stomach absentmindedly. "Have we decided what to call him yet?"

"How do you know it's a him?"

"Call it a hunch," said Erik, with an obscure smile. Meg narrowed her eyes at him.

"We'll name him after his daddy," she said. Erik let out a warm chuckle.

"Baby Erik, eh?"

There was a pause.

"Baby Erik, I said."

Another pause. Erik looked in her eyes.

"Meg?"

"I am very much afraid," she said, fidgeting, "that we shall have to call him Raoul."

**The Confrontation**

Erik put his hands on his hips.

"You mean to tell me you've been sleeping with my woman?"

Raoul blinked at him. "Which one?"

Erik stuttered. "Either!"

"Oh, then, yes."

"What?"

"Yes. Both."

"_What_?"

Raoul grinned. "You're cute when you're angry."

**The Consolation**

"Madame Giry," groaned Erik, burying his head in his hands, "I come to you for consolation."

"Sorry," said Madame Giry, "but— did you just— _groan_?"

**The Complications**

"This is ridiculous!" shouted Meg, utterly annoyed.

"Family meeting!" shouted Christine.

"What do you mean, family? You're not family," said Meg, utterly peeved.

"Well, er, um, ha, see," said Christine.

"Dear lord, no!" shouted Meg, utterly utterly.

**The Result**

"We'll call _this_ one Andre, and _that_ one Firmin," said Erik definitely, as they gathered around to stare at Meg and the babies. "It seems best."


End file.
